Chương 64: Chapter 63: The Descent of Conspiracy

Was Scargoth a member of one of these organizations? she questioned, her mind leaping from one possibility to another with lightning speed. Had the original Selena been part of them? An agent? A messenger? One more piece on that board of shadows she had just discovered? But the meditation of the thought broke. It was overrun by a torrent of memories, visceral images that were no longer abstract like the recollection of a past life but materialized before her eyes with terrifying sharpness.

She saw the wound in her own flesh again. It was there, on the neck of this body she now inhabited, open and bleeding. Then, she saw it sealing slowly, the edges moving with that agonizing, almost lazy slowness, while the blood —that hot and vital liquid— throbbed and returned to her body as if reclaimed by an invisible force. Then came the choking. The sensation of asphyxiation, of lungs struggling to find air while panic paralyzed her chest.

The different skin that was now her body, the flesh, the curves, that feminine geography. The convulsive impacts of the new body returning to life to provide her shelter, to accept her, to merge with her in a union she had never asked for. The question, now armed with the knowledge of the hidden factions, echoed in her skull with a new and terrifying clarity: Who? What organization, what hand so cold and calculating, could orchestrate something like this? What purpose did they have in killing a woman and then...

allowing, or forcing, another consciousness to inhabit her? Her body responded before her rational mind could. A deep dizziness, like a pit opening beneath her feet, shook her. It was followed by a hammering pain in her head, a relentless drill piercing her temples. An uncontrollable trembling, the same one she had felt that first morning in the hostel room, ran through her limbs from head to toe.

A sharp, stabbing pain drove into her chest like a knife, tightening her lungs until her breathing became a succession of short, shallow, desperate gasps. —No —she managed to moan through clenched teeth, balling her fists until her knuckles turned white under her pale skin. But her mind, racing at a thousand miles an hour, had already connected the wires. It jumped directly to the pages she had just read, to the descriptions that were still burning into her retinas. The Threads of Thar'ven.

Weavers of destiny, mixing blood and silk in incomprehensible rituals to create the Soul Veils. Was her body, her life, a new Veil? A macabre tapestry woven with the blood of the other Selena, warped with the threads of two consciousnesses to create something new, something never before seen? Or worse. The Conclave of the Transformed Flesh. Alchemists obsessed with transcending human limits, with transplanting, modifying, altering the very essence of life. Was she an experiment?

A vessel for a transplanted consciousness, one more step in their blasphemous search for immortality? Or perhaps an attempt to create something completely new, a fusion of souls that defied every known law? If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it's taken without the author's consent. Report it. The idea, the mere possibility of being the product of one of those sinister machinations, was the final straw. Her body could take no more.

A violent retch bent her at the waist, shaking her torso with a force that seemed to come from deep within. The vomit, acid and bitter, splashed onto the stone floor in front of her, a tiny puddle reflecting the trembling light of the lamps. The shaking intensified, turning into an uncontrollable vibration that made her teeth chatter with a dry, frantic sound. Her breath was now a jagged wheeze, a broken bellow that failed to fill her lungs with air.

The walls of the chamber seemed to narrow, too close in, as if the cave itself were going to swallow her. The lamplight blurred into dancing spots, smudges of yellow and orange spinning around her in a senseless whirlwind. Her mind, caught in a whirlpool of past and present horrors, could not withstand the overload. A black veil, dense and cold, fell over her consciousness.

And she lost consciousness, collapsing onto the cold floor of the cave like dead weight, like a sack of flour someone had dropped from a height. Light returned slowly to her eyes. Drop by drop, a soft illumination filtered through her closed eyelids. A sound arrived with the same intensity, soft and approaching little by little, step by step, until she could finally open her eyes. In front of her was the girl with slanted eyes.

Kaela's eyes were red, swollen from crying, and her brow was furrowed in that expression of worry. Seeing her open eyes, Kaela's face transformed. The tension vanished, replaced by a relief so immense it seemed to radiate its own light. Only then did she speak, with a rush of words stumbling over each other in their urgency to get out: —I'm glad —she whispered, her voice was broken by sobs— I'm so glad. She didn't ask what had happened. She made no reproaches. She demanded no explanations.

She was simply there, holding her, her arms firm around Selena's shoulders, her silent weeping saying everything that words could not express: the fear of losing her, the fragility of their alliance in this hostile world, and the simple, powerful relief that she was still breathing, that she was still alive, that she hadn't gone forever. She stayed by her side for the rest of the afternoon.

Kaela became a protective, motionless silhouette, sitting on the stone floor next to her, watching every breath, every blink, every small movement. After making sure Selena drank some water and ate something simple, she did not move an inch from her friend. Letters, on that day, could wait. The whole world could wait. In Selena's pale and sweaty face, Kaela did not see the mysterious daughter of the merchant, nor the seeker of answers who had dragged her into caves of heretics and conspiracies.

She didn't see the woman who had negotiated with criminals and defied the Church. She saw the person who, against all odds, in a world that had only given her loss and solitude, had become her beacon in the storm. She was not willing to feel the frozen void of losing someone she loved again. There were no words between them during those long hours. None were needed.

Affection was expressed in Kaela's vigilant silence, in the way she adjusted her blanket, in the hand that, from time to time, she placed on her forehead to check for a fever from the fright. It was quiet, practical care, tinged with a worry so deep it transcended mere company. Unlike the cold spiral of dread and memories that the book had triggered, what Selena felt now was a different warmth.

A firm and comforting beat in the center of her chest seemed to expand, warming her entire soul, dispelling the shadows that had consumed her hours before. When strength finally returned to her limbs and color returned to her cheeks after hours, Elian approached with his usual discretion. The acolyte, who had respected the silence and distance, drew near without making a sound and handed them the payment for both.

It was a gesture that, in another context, would have been a mere commercial transaction, the fulfillment of a bargain. But today, in that moment, it only sealed the normalcy of an agreement that allowed them to stay alive, together, for one more day.